


Playing to Win

by Selenay



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Humour, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physiotherapist Phil Coulson, Romance, Slow Build, Soccer AU, Soccer Player Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-05 23:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1836334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is a genius on the soccer pitch. Put a ball at his feet and he can't be beaten.</p><p>Off the pitch...it's a little messier. But this is going to be the season when the soccer comes first, for everyone on the NY Avengers team. No scandals. No shenanigans. No media headlines not related to the game.</p><p>Good plan, right? Too bad they just hired a new physio and Clint can't seem to stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint Barton's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This all started because Mikey posted [this](http://selenay936.tumblr.com/post/87496936112/soccer-aus-cmon-fandom-dont-let-me-down) and then kept cheerleading me into writing it. Mostly by sending me gifs and saying "Woot!" a lot. It's also Mikey's fault that I'm posting this as a WIP with a potentially erratic updating schedule. But I swear to all that is holy, this will be finished. I've never not finished a WIP.
> 
> For more inspirational images, there's [all of these pictures](http://selenay936.tumblr.com/tagged/soccer-AU) as well, to look at while waiting for more updates. I claim poetic licence on all the aspects of major league soccer than I have twisted, spindled, and abused. I know there is no gender integration, but I couldn't make myself leave out my favourite Marvel women. So, you know, if that's going to bother you then stop reading now. If it's not...have fun.

As days went, Clint had lived through better. That time he broke his arm in three places when he was nine seemed pretty great right now.

The plane lurched as it hit a patch of turbulence, and Clint clutched the arm of his seat convulsively. A soft ding sounded through the cabin, signalling the seat belt light had turned on for the fifth time in the last two hours. Clint would have laughed, if he hadn't been so busy keeping his lunch down, because he'd never even bothered to take the damn belt off in the first place.

Not like the kid in the seat in front of him, who jumped up like a Jack-in-the-box every time the seat belt light went out. His parents didn't seem to give fuck that their kid had spent most of the flight staring at a stranger.

The boy was wearing a Manchester United shirt under his NY Avengers hoodie. 

Clint had already figured out that he was stuck in a nightmare journey long before he got on the plane, and the sight of a kid wearing his team's merchandise sitting in front of him had only confirmed it. The turbulence, and his intense desire not to throw up in front of a fan, was just the icing on a really shitty cake.

The mom pulled her son down and buckled him in, but that only lasted until the seat belt light turned off again. Then he was back up, hanging on the back of his seat, staring at Clint.

Clint kept his eyes on the book he couldn't seem to muster the concentration to actually read, focusing hard on not letting himself drop into his grumpy resting face. He could only imagine Fury's expression if there was a press story tomorrow about Clint making a kid cry.

He spent most of the rest of the flight torn between wishing for more turbulence, so the boy would have to sit down, and praying for a smooth flight because his stomach hated all the rocking.

At least he was flying to somewhere warm, instead of freezing his nuts off training at home. Hanging grimly onto that thought was all that kept him from buying a drink after another half hour of steady being-stared-at.

That and the thought of what Fury would say if there was a story about Clint _getting drunk_ and making a kid cry.

***

Fate clearly hated him, because just as Clint finally got out of his last airport of the day, the skies opened and rain bucketed down. Icy cold rain, not the warm stuff he'd been promised. He was soaked through in less than thirty seconds while he stood at the curb looking for the car he'd been promised would be waiting.

There was no car.

After a couple of minutes, he gave up and joined the line at the taxi stand. Everyone looked equally cold and miserable. Half the women had already put on shorts and sandals in the bathroom on the plane, in anticipation of warm weather. He knew, because most of them had managed to hit him in the head with their bags as they went past during the breaks in turbulence. They were all shivering and one kid started to cry, which got his family to the front of the line almost immediately.

By the time Clint crawled into a cab, he was too cold and wet to care about anything. He gave the hotel address to the driver and slumped back in his seat, giving absolutely no fucks about how wet he was making the upholstery. The driver kept shooting him looks in the rear-view mirror, but Clint figured that if he really hadn't wanted wet seats, he wouldn't have pulled up to the stand in the middle of a freak thunderstorm.

"Weird weather we're having," the driver said as they pulled onto the highway.

"Yeah," Clint said.

His phone was in his pocket, and it made an unhappy sound when he tried to turn it on. It was probably as wet as he was. Tony would know what to do with it, if it could be saved, so Clint stuffed it back in his pocket and sat back with his eyes closed.

The rain eased off during the drive, but it returned at full strength the moment they stopped in front of the hotel. Clint wasn't surprised.

He paid the guy--using a card because all his cash had turned into a sodden lump--and resigned himself to getting re-soaked running from the cab to the hotel. Somehow, it was actually worse to get wet again after just starting to dry off.

There was a line at reception, of course, and Clint half-expected that they were going to tell him that his room reservation had been lost when he finally got to the front. Fate decided to take a short break, so he was in the system, but the clerk shoved half a dozen messages in his hand with the key and Clint swore as he read them.

_Team dinner, 8pm. Assemble. Steve._

That one almost made Clint smile. It was so cheesy, and so Steve.

_Barton. Team meal at 8pm in the Lincoln Dining Room. DO NOT BE LATE. I know you know where it is. Fury._

Clint grimaced at that one.

_Barton. Don't even. I will kill you. N._

Clint checked his watch, swore, and began running. The reception clerk was the only person in sight, so he couldn't hand his suitcase to someone to take up to his room, and the little wheels started to make unhappy sounds from how fast they were being forced to turn. He was definitely leaving wet footprints everywhere, he was probably dripping as well, and Clint couldn't think of many ways the day could actually get worse at that point.

Which was probably why his entire damned suitcase gave up as he hurtled through the doors to the Lincoln room. The wheels flew off, the handle snapped, and the zipper must have been faulty as well because the whole thing sprang open and half his clothes--now soggy--flopped over the side, because his luck was shitty that way.

Clint looked up, feeling the silence that fell like a thick, suffocating blanket over the room. He forced a smile and waved. "Hey guys. Did I miss anything?"

There was a soft snort from the head of the table, which was probably Fury suppressing the urge to say something sarcastic, but everyone else was staring at him without speaking. It was like being back in that damned plane with the kid watching his every move. Clint scrubbed a hand through his hair, and water ran down his wrist. It was still dripping. Great.

He must look like a drowned rat. A drowned rat with a busted suitcase spilling its guts everywhere.

Tony was the first one to speak. "Wasn't the whole point of this training camp thing that we wouldn't spend the week soaking and freezing? Because that, that is a man who's soaking and freezing."

Fury shrugged. "I can't control the weather."

A debate began, pulling in half the team, and Clint was grateful for the distraction. At least it took everyone's attention off him.

He knelt to begin throwing his damp clothes into the broken case. A moment later, something warm draped over his shoulders and he pulled the towel closer, directing a smile up at Steve in thanks. He might technically only be the captain on the field, but Steve was a good guy everywhere. He clasped Clint's shoulder briefly, before heading back to the table to referee the argument breaking out between Tony and Fury.

Clint didn't bother folding anything as he shoved it all away. It wasn't as though anything had been folded to start with, anyway, and he'd have to hang most of it around the room to dry it out before it would be wearable. When someone else began picking up t-shirts and folding them before adding them to the pile, Clint half expected to find Steve kneeling opposite him.

He was kind of surprised to glance up and meet a stranger's gaze. The guy had the prettiest eyes Clint had seen for a long time. Blue, at least at first, but with flecks of grey that Clint thought might change with his mood. Clint smiled involuntarily, and the guy's skin did a crinkly thing at the corners of his eyes that made him seem to smile even though his lips hadn't so much as twitched.

"You're new," Clint said, and winced. "I mean, hi?"

"Phil Coulson," the guy said. "I'm the new physiotherapist."

"Oh." Clint stuck out his hand. "I'm Clint Barton."

"Yes, I know who you are," Phil said. His lips twitched this time. "Thank you?"

Clint looked down and realised he was holding out a handful of his wet boxers. Right. Yeah. He probably should have dropped them before he offered to shake the guy's hand with them. Great. Perfect first impression.

"Ugh," Clint said, snatching the boxers back and shoving them under a pair of jeans. "Sorry."

Phil laid a last t-shirt on the pile and smiled. "It's nice to meet you."

"Yeah, you too," Clint said.

He pushed the case to the side of the room and slid into his chair, face burning, wondering whether he could get a do over on the whole day.

Natasha elbowed him in the ribs and whispered, "Smooth."

Yeah. Best day ever.

***

Fury tapped his glass with a spoon while everyone was still eating dessert. Clint glanced up from digging into the delicious chocolatey indulgence in his bowl, trying to look as innocent as he could. So far, the gooey dessert was the only good part of his day, and attracting Fury's wrath would definitely disrupt his enjoyment of it.

The low buzz of conversation slowly died away as Fury stood up, leaning forward slightly with his hands on the table. "Now that you're all here--" He levelled a pointed glare in Clint's direction. "--I've got a few announcements before you all run off to drink things I don't want to know you're drinking."

There was some muffled laughter and Clint grinned around his spoon. At least Fury didn't pretend they weren't all going to drink too much beer tonight as soon as the management's backs were turned.

"I'm sure you've all noticed the new faces at the table," Fury said, when the laughter died down. "Stand up, let everyone take a look at you."

Natasha stood with the other new players. Probably only Clint knew that the hand resting on his shoulder was digging into the muscle so it didn't shake. Her faint smile and the coolness in her eyes would fool most people. A couple of the other new players looked overawed and terrified, but not all of them. One of them surveyed the room with a cocky smile and one of the new women tilted her chin up defiantly.

"If any of these faces are a surprise to you," Fury continued, "please don't tell me. I like to maintain the illusion that you're all interested enough in your chosen profession to keep up with the news during the break. As I'm sure you'll have heard--and again, don't tell me if you didn't, there were letters and emails you were supposed to be reading--we're now the flagship team for the league's new integrated policy. Romanov, Danvers, and Drew are our new recruits under that policy. Give them a hand."

There was scattered applause and the blond woman--Danvers--cracked a small smile while Drew waved nervously next to her.

"That brings me to the first order of business," Fury said. "We're the test team for the new policy. That means we're being watched. If I hear so much as a hint that anyone on this team is not being treated with the respect and courtesy they deserve, I will bench everyone involved. I mean it." He glared around the room. "Don't try to test me on this. And if there are any stories in the media about this team that are not directly related to what happens on the field...you do not want to find out what I'll do. Trust me on this. No bad behaviour, no shenanigans, no scandals, no fucking around. Your conduct on and off the field will be beyond reproach. We have a lot of ground to make up after last season, and that starts today."

Clint swallowed hard. Even though he hadn't been involved in anything that happened last season, he could still feel the weight of Fury's gaze as he looked around the room. He had a clean conscience, but somehow his over-developed sense of guilt was still pulling at him.

He scooped up a spoonful of dessert, and the rich taste had its usual comforting effect. There was nothing that couldn't be made better by the right food.

As Natasha sat down with the other rookie players, Clint caught a glimpse of the new physio. He was sitting next to Fury and he seemed to be paying attention, but there was a hint of colour high on his cheeks. A moment later, he seemed to glance down the table in Clint's direction and immediately look away, the hint of pink becoming a deeper shade. Which was kind of odd, until Clint realised he was staring right at the guy and sucking on his spoon and...

Right. Yeah. No scandals. No shenanigans.

Clint dropped his spoon in his bowl and tried to look really interested in Fury's speech about their first pre-season games. It was kind of important, probably, but they'd played the same teams in pre-season last year and Clint had actually read his emails so it wasn't anything he didn't already know.

Sneaking a few quick glances at the new physio was impossible to avoid. The guy was sitting next to Fury, after all, and he did have incredible eyes. The rest of him wasn't as immediately captivating--he was going a little thin on top, for starters--and it was impossible to make out his body shape under the dark suit he was wearing. 

But the eyes...Clint had always been drawn to people with nice eyes.

Fury straightened up and Clint forced his attention back to the speech.

"I want you to go out there and show everyone we've still got it," Fury said. "Put last season behind you, because I sure as hell have. Make everyone talk about the New York Avengers for the right reasons this year. Play good soccer, keep it clean, and bring home some silverware. Our cabinet is looking damn empty."

There was a chorus of "Yes, sir!" around the table (and a wolf-whistle from Tony) as Fury sat down. Clint echoed them and nudged Natasha in the ribs.

"Told you it would be fine," he said.

She nudged him back, hard enough to make him wince. "I never said it wouldn't be."

"Of course you didn't. Those texts threatening to gut me if I wasn't at this dinner were just playing."

She ignored him with dignity and pushed away from the table. Clint eyed the remains of his dessert for a moment before scooping it all up and shoving the overloaded spoon in his mouth.

Obviously, that was when the new physio cleared his throat behind Clint.

Clint stood up so fast that he almost knocked his chair over. He tried to smile, remembered that his mouth was full of chocolate trifle, and almost pulled something trying to swallow. There was probably (no, definitely) chocolate around his mouth and he suspected that he looked kind of manic. Shit.

"Do you need help getting your case back to your room?"

Clint frantically tried to remember the guy's name. Ugh, names, why couldn't he ever remember names? "I've got it, I think."

The physio smiled. "If you change your mind..."

"Yeah, no, pretty sure I'm good," Clint said. Was he Phil? Pete? No, probably Phil. "Thanks, man."

With another small smile, possibly-Phil turned and followed the rest of the management and support team out of the room. A collective sigh of relief immediately went around the room and conversation became louder, less restrained. Clint knelt next to his case, shoving a few stray socks inside while he tried to figure out how to get it up to his room without losing half the contents on the way.

The question was solved a minute later, when Thor clapped him on the shoulder and announced that as they were to be neighbours for the week, he'd help. Clint suspected that Thor was also planning to call his girlfriend in the privacy of his room, and maybe bring some of the amazingly potent honey wine his parents brewed down when he finished, but whatever. It got his suitcase upstairs without any more disasters.

The rest of the evening was a blur of honey wine, beer, and foosball. It was late by the time he staggered upstairs again and his room key stubbornly refused to work. It didn't help that there were two locks swimming in front of him and he kept missing both of them.

The door swung open suddenly and possibly-Phil was standing there, looking rumpled and sleepy. "Clint?"

Clint peered at him blearily. "You're in my room."

Possibly-Phil took the key out of his hand. He was really very pretty. And kind of blurry. Huh.

"This is my room," he said. "You're across the hall."

"Oh." Clint swayed a little. "Huh."

"You're also very drunk."

"Yup."

Possibly-Phil wedged his door open with a shoe and steered Clint across the hall. He even unlocked Clint's door, which seemed like a really impressive skill to Clint's alcohol-muddled brain. There were three locks, after all, and he got the key in the right one first time. What a guy.

"Goodnight, Physio Guy Phil," Clint slurred.

Possibly-Phil smiled and put the key in his hand, before pushing him inside. The door swung shut behind Clint, who staggered three feet forward and fell mostly onto his bed, face down. He was snoring a moment later, and that was all he knew until morning.


	2. Training Daze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before. And Clint has to drag himself out on a pitch anyway.

Clint woke up with the vague sense that he'd done something really stupid last night, but his memories after the third glass of honey wine were pretty fuzzy.

Okay, most of them were actually missing. Or at least, so confusing they might as well have been missing.

Was there something about a room key?

Ugh. Clint groaned and rolled over onto his back. He felt like he'd pulled pretty near every muscle in his body, which was probably because he'd passed out on the bed face down, with his legs hanging over the end. Not a sleeping posture he'd recommend.

His head spun when he sat up, but thankfully his stomach didn't join the hangover party. Trying to prod at the missing memories made his head hurt more, though, so Clint gave up on it. His busted suitcase was still sitting half-open on the floor and most of his clothes were still crammed inside, which...yeah, he was probably going to regret that later.

Clint fished his phone out of his pocket and tried to turn it on. It made the same sad sound as yesterday and the screen stayed dark.

"Aw, phone."

The clock on the nightstand was flashing midnight, which wasn't helpful. He was just reaching for the room phone, planning to call front desk for the time, when it began ringing and he jerked his hand away, startled. The sound vibrated through his aching head, and for a moment Clint was tempted to lie down and put his pillow over his head until it stopped.

The ringing paused, just long enough to make him think it would stay stopped, before starting up again. Huh. Someone really wanted to talk to him.

He gave in. It was easier than trying to shut out the piercing ringing. "Hello?"

"Clint, where the hell are you?" Natasha sounded...irritated, to put it politely.

"What time is it?"

There was a loud sigh over the line. "Get your ass down here. Team breakfast started two minutes ago and Rogers is looking twitchy."

Shit.

"I need ten minutes," Clint said. He could smell the stink of beer and sweat on his own skin, which meant he probably smelled even worse to everyone else. "Fifteen, maybe."

"You've got five and then I eat your bacon."

There was a click and the line went dead. Clint hugged the receiver to his chest and flopped back on the bed, which made his head pound even harder.

On the up side, if Steve was looking unhappy, then Clint wasn't the only one struggling with the whole morning thing. Probably most of the team was. 

That wasn't as comforting as it should have been.

***

Natasha didn't eat his bacon.

Mostly because there was no bacon to eat. The team nutritionist didn't approve of bacon, or eggs, or pancakes. She'd probably popped a vein when she saw the menu for the start of training meal last night.

Clint wasn't actually the most hungover person piling into the team bus after breakfast. That award went to Tony, who was still wincing at loud noises as they drove off and had barely eaten more than a slice of toast for breakfast. A small smile twitched at the corner of Natasha's mouth every time she looked over at him, hiding behind his sunshades and whimpering softly. Clint had no idea how she wasn't suffering from the hangover from hell.

It was probably her mutant superpower or something.

As superpowers went, it was a useful one. Compared to his talent for being a disaster whenever he wasn't kicking a ball, it would be awesome.

"Clint, quit leaning against me," Natasha said. "You're damp."

Clint shuffled closer to the window. He'd grabbed the driest clothes he could find in his case, but there wasn't much to choose from, and his sweatpants, shorts, and t-shirt were clinging and clammy in all the worst places. He suspected they also clashed badly, but he'd never been that great with colours.

Who said purple and orange couldn't be worn together, anyway?

The management team was sitting down at the front of the bus. Clint could just see the top of the physio guy's head over the seats. He was about ninety percent...fifty percent sure his name was Phil. Something about that thought made him pause. A memory niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't pull it free.

The bus drove through a set of gates and pulled up outside the stadium the team was borrowing for the week. There were a few press photographers hanging around the gates, trying to snap pictures with telephoto lenses, but they wouldn't get much. It wasn't far from the bus to the doors, and most of the team kept their heads down and walked fast. A couple of the rookies started to wave, until their teammates nudged them in the ribs and hurried them inside.

There would be a whole morning of press shit later in the week, when anyone with a camera or a Twitter account would be invited to watch the team train. At this time last year, there hadn't been much interest in the NY Avengers. Not compared to LA Galaxy or Houston Hydra, anyway. They'd probably be overrun this year.

Clint kept his head down with everyone else. 

Walking out through the tunnel and feeling the familiar springiness of the grass under his shoes was like coming home. Even without the roar of a crowd welcoming them onto the field, it felt right and real. The tension seemed to drain out of Clint's shoulders--tension he hadn't even been aware of until it was gone--and the last of his headache melted away.

Someone threw a ball to him and he caught it easily. Bounced it off the ground, did a couple of trick flips with it, and smiled.

Yeah, this was where he was good. This was what he did. Damp clothes and fuzzy memories didn't matter when he had an open field and a ball at his feet.

***

"I see why the press don't get to see us until Thursday."

Clint looked up, shading his eyes. He'd been enjoying a few minutes of quality sprawling time while he recovered from a morning of running and agility exercises. The person standing over him was silhouetted against the bright sky, so he couldn't make out more than a general outline. The voice sounded female, though.

He sat up. "Hi?"

"Carol," she said, leaning down and sticking out a hand for Clint to shake. "You tried to warn me about the honey wine last night."

"Right." Clint scrambled to his feet. "Right. I...er..."

"You don't remember that?"

"Not so much."

She had a friendly grin, now he could see her face. "Yeah, shame you didn't take your own advice on that."

"Did I do anything weird last night?"

"Depends on what your standard of weird is. Did you take your pants off and declare yourself king of the foosball table? No, you definitely didn't do that."

"Let me guess, Stark?"

"I'm guessing that's one of his regular tricks?"

Clint chuckled. "He's actually calmed down a lot since he got together with Pepper. That'll pretty much be the only time you see his ass this year, unless someone pulls his shorts down on the field."

"That happens?"

"Only the one time," Clint said. "Thor's brother uses dirty tactics."

Carol snickered. "Was that you or Tony, or both of you?"

"I think he was aiming for Thor," Clint said. "It all got kind of confusing at the time. It was the first--and last--time I've ever been bare-assed on camera involuntarily."

Something rattled behind him, and Clint twisted around to find Phil standing next to a crate of water bottles. His ears were pink. Clint frowned for a moment, before shrugging and turning back to Carol.

"So you've been bare-assed on camera voluntarily, as well?" Carol said. "This sounds good."

Clint wrinkled his nose. "Charity calendar thing last year."

There was another noise behind him. It sounded a lot like someone trying--unsuccessfully--not to choke too loudly. He twisted around and found Phil standing by his crate of bottles, red in the face with water dripping off his chin. Phil lifted an eyebrow coolly at him.

Clint grinned and turned back to Carol, who was surveying the field with a critical eye. He followed her gaze, just in time to see Sam Wilson take a ball to the groin and slowly topple over sideways, hands cupped over his crotch.

"Yeah, this is why Fury doesn't let the press in on day one," Clint said. "Trust me, we get better."

"Uh huh." Carol sounded sceptical. "I mean, I've seen you guys play. You're not awful. But this isn't giving me much confidence."

Clint shrugged. "Spend a few weeks working solo, it takes a bit of practice to get used to doing it with other people again." He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, but Phil wasn't there anymore. He absolutely wasn't disappointed. Nope. "We'll be ready when it counts."

"I'm counting on it," Carol said. "I'm good, but I'm not good enough to carry all your asses."

Fury's whistle sounded before Clint could make a clever retort, so he flipped her off with a grin and jogged over to the huddle gathering in near the goalposts.

***

Clint wanted a shower more than anything else in the world when he got back to the hotel that evening. He got as far as starting to strip off his shirt in the doorway to the bathroom when a thought stopped him.

All his clothes were still lying in a damp muddle in his broken suitcase.

Damn.

He slid his sweaty shirt on again. Picked up the shirt he'd worn yesterday and recoiled instantly from the stale sweat and beer stench wafting from it. There was no way he was putting that on after he got clean, and there was no point changing out of his sweaty clothes into other sweaty clothes.

Clint prodded hopefully at the pile spilling out of the side of his case, but everything was at least partially damp and a faint sour smell rose up from it. Shit.

A call down to the hotel reception confirmed that there were laundry facilities he could use. Or laundry facilities someone else could use for him, if he was willing to wait until morning for clean, dry clothes. Clint considered his options carefully.

On the one hand, he could just shower, put all his bagged up clothing outside the door, and give up on everything for the evening. Go to bed early--naked--and hope nobody pulled a fire alarm, forcing him out of his room wearing a towel barely wide enough to cover his privates.

On the other hand, Clint remembered an email about another team meal tonight, and Fury could devise some really cruel punishments for anyone who didn't throw themselves into the training schedule with total commitment. His definition of "training schedule" included all the group meals. It was some kind of bullshit team bonding thing that Clint didn't believe in, but skipping out on it always hurt in the end.

Not that he could check his phone to confirm the email, because Tony had taken one look at it and declared it deader than a dodo, but Clint was pretty sure he remembered it. And he wasn't about to chance Fury's temper, which hadn't been improved by the mess they'd been out on the field.

Team meal. No clean, dry clothes. It wasn't really a contest. Clint gathered up everything he judged would be safe in a hotel washer and dryer, and trudged down to the laundry room.

***

He'd left his book in the room, so he passed forty incredibly boring minutes sitting on a dryer, mapping the cracks in the laundry ceiling. Someone else had a load going as well, which seemed brave to Clint if they weren't hotel staff. He'd thought about leaving his stuff to wash alone, for about five seconds, before remembering the stolen underwear incident from three years ago.

It hadn't been his underwear that ended up on eBay. It hadn't even been Tony's. Steve had been the punchline to jokes on SNL for six months after, and it still seemed to come up in press interviews way more often than seemed fair. None of it had been his fault, but that little fact didn't seem to worry anyone making lewd jokes or writing opinion pieces on Steve's morals. 

His boxers ended going for five thousand dollars, which kind of boggled Clint because the most expensive thing he'd ever bought was his bike, and even that felt like a really frivolous purchase.

So he stayed with his clothes. Better safe than sorry and all that.

Clint was shoving everything into the dryer when the door opened. He'd heard the beep from the other machine finishing while he was trying to unknot his sweatpants from a t-shirt, so he figured it would be someone from the hotel coming to retrieve their stuff. Straightening up to see Phil tugging a bundle of wet fabric out of the washer made him pause for a moment.

He was sure there was something he was supposed to remember.

Clint slammed the door on the dryer, turned it on, and hopped up onto the empty washer. "What happened?"

Phil shrugged. "A bottle of oil burst in one of my bags."

"You couldn't get the hotel staff to clean everything up for you?"

"I know a few tricks," Phil said. He started to pack towels and t-shirts into the other dryer without looking around. "It's a hazard of the profession. I thought there was more chance of salvaging some of it if I took care of it myself."

"At least it doesn't look like it ruined anything expensive," Clint said.

Phil made an unhappy face. "I have three dress shirts upstairs that will disagree."

The mournful tone of voice, combined with his expression, somehow seemed to funny to Clint rather than tragic and he couldn't help laughing. Phil's lips twitched a couple of times before a reluctant chuckle escaped.

"Betrayed by massage oil," Clint said, snorting as more laughter tried to overwhelm him.

"That sounds like a bad romance title," Phil said, smiling.

"Three shirts, torn apart by a treacherous bottle filled with lies and slippery promises. Can they find love again?"

"I'm not sure whether a shirtless Fabio cover would work for a book like that."

Clint smirked. "You seem to know a lot about romance novel covers."

"I have a sister," Phil said lightly. "You seem more familiar with the jacket blurbs than I'd expect."

"I worked in a bookstore when I was in school." Clint carefully bit down on the temptation to admit to the contents of his Kindle. "You shelve a lot of romance doing that."

"I can imagine." Phil closed the door of his dryer, pushed the buttons, and leaned against it casually. He nodded to the clothes slowly tumbling in the one next to it. "What happened to you?"

"I kind of forgot to set everything out to dry last night," Clint said. "I needed something to wear for dinner."

"You were pretty drunk last night," Phil said, smiling.

Clint froze. "How did you..." A fuzzy image of Phil with his hair standing up in fluffy clumps, face creased from his pillow, pulled free from the muddle at the back of Clint's mind. "I didn't."

"You did," Phil said. "But you were a very happy drunk, if it helps."

"What did I do?"

"You seemed highly impressed with my ability to operate a room key," Phil said.

"Aw, crap." Clint winced. "Is that the worst of it? Did I do anything else?"

"No, that was it," Phil said. "You were a very cheerful, compliant drunk. It was refreshing, actually, after dealing with a few less compliant drunks over the years."

Clint prodded carefully at his memories again, but nothing else fell out. He didn't know Phil well enough to read his body language, but he didn't seem like a guy who'd been pawed at or slobbered over last night. The skin around his eyes had gone all crinkly, making him look amused even though he wasn't smiling anymore. If Clint had made a pass at him or done anything really bad, he had a feeling that Phil wouldn't have been looking at him that way.

"Solemnly swear, I don't usually drink that much," Clint said, holding up a hand.

"I believe that," Phil said. "Are you staying with your stuff?"

Clint shrugged. "It's safer than letting someone steal it."

"I could watch it and bring it up to your room when it's done," Phil said. "You should shower before the meal."

"I stink that badly?"

"I couldn't comment."

Clint considered the idea for a moment. He was cutting it tight, if he waited for the machine to finish before going upstairs to shower. There was the possibility that Phil would screw him over and fail to deliver the clothes, leaving him swinging in the wind (kind of literally) if he wanted to leave the hotel room before morning. But for some reason, Clint didn't think Phil would do that. He didn't seem like that kind of guy.

"Are you sure?" Clint asked.

"I'm right across the hall from you," Phil said. "I can leave the bag outside your door."

Clint glanced up at the clock on the wall. "Okay, I'll take you up on that. Thanks."

"Not a problem."

***

There was a rap at Clint's door just as he was getting out of the shower. By the time he had a towel wrapped around him semi-decently, Phil was gone and the clothes were sitting outside as promised. Clint wasn't sure why he felt a small stab of disappointment.

Phil did smile at him when he slid into the chair next to Natasha, two minutes before the meal started. That did something unexpected to Clint's stomach, which had to be due to the delicious smell of lasagne wafting towards him rather than anything else.

***

Clint looked out at the pitch on Thursday morning, and almost retreated back to the dressing room. Natasha's hand at his back--and the threat of what she'd do to him later--was all that kept him jogging through the tunnel and onto the grass.

There was a lot of press watching them.

A lot.

Were there really that many magazines, newspapers, and blogs actually interested in soccer? Seriously, Clint hadn't seen a scrum like that…maybe ever. Definitely not for any team he'd ever played for.

The whole team was wearing the new strip for the first time, and even the coaching staff had been bullied into wearing suits. Fury ran the players through some stuff, but it was obvious to everyone that they wouldn't get any serious training done until after the press left. This was just about making them all look good for the cameras in their new uniforms.

Clint wasn't surprised when part of their 'training' session was penalty practice. If Fury wanted to make the team look good, then asking him to put a few balls in the net was a good tactic. 

He wasn't vain, but he knew what he was good at. Even Thor couldn't keep one of his shots out of the goal more than half the time.

Natasha, Carol, and Jessica all featured prominently in the session, too, which was also a good plan. They were the new innovations for the season, and Fury clearly wanted to keep the journalists focussed on how the team would play, rather than anything else. It was smart thinking.

Too bad the first question at the mini-press conference after the training session wasn't about any of them. Clint could see a muscle twitching in Fury's jaw. He was grateful that nobody cared enough about his opinion to bother looking his way, because he could feel his face slipping into a scowl against his will.

The reporter who had the question smiled with so much sickly sweetness, it couldn't be real. Clint gritted his teeth.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?" Steve asked. Only someone who had known him for years would hear the tension underlying the politeness.

The reporter's smile widened. "I said, your first game in the regular season will be against Houston Hydra. Given the events last year, what will be your tactics?"

There was a breathless silence while every reporter and blogger in the room waited for the response. Clint's fingers were white where he was gripping the arms of his chair. All of Fury's speeches about being a new team, putting last year behind them, sounded great at a dinner table when it was just them. He couldn't wipe anyone's memories, though, and this moment had probably been inevitable since the schedule was announced.

Clint kept his eyes fixed on the reporter, resisting the temptation to glance down at Steve.

"Our tactics?" Steve repeated. "We'll play a clean game, just like we will against any other team. That's all I can give you on our strategy. You'll just have to watch us play on the day."

"What if they put Grant Ward on the field?"

"Grant Ward transferred for personal reasons and we wish him the best. If he's fielded against us, I don't see that being an issue. We're all professionals here, aren't we?"

It was a total lie, one hundred percent, and everyone in the room knew it.

More questions were shouted out, hurled out at them, but Fury and Steve handled them with the deceptive ease. Clint had never been great with the press, even on a good day. He was grateful that nobody looked his way, even though Natasha was sitting next to him and she should have been one of the players they were focusing on. Any other year, Natasha and the other women players would have been getting all the questions, with maybe a few for Stark to try to bait him into saying something lecherous.

Not that he would, but they'd try it anyway.

Clint kind of missed the days when the worst thing likely to happen at a press conference was a bad Tony Stark quote.

Natasha nudged him in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "If you keep glaring like that, you'll set someone on fire."

"Would that be a bad thing?"

She pretended to consider it. "Probably not."

"At least nobody's asked you about your diet."

Natasha's expression slid into a flat, hard thing for a moment, before she forced a professional smile back into place. "Not yet, anyway."

A slight disturbance at the back of the room caught Clint's attention and he looked out, past the reporters and flashing cameras, to where a few people in suits and team ties were clustering around the door. Somehow, he found himself searching the group for a familiar face. He didn't even realise who he was looking for until he found Phil, standing behind the team nutritionist with his arms crossed over his chest.

It was just coincidence, it had to be, but Phil's attention left the disaster happening at the centre of the table just as Clint looked over at him. Their gazes locked. Only for a moment, too brief to be anything except an accident, and yet a knot in Clint's stomach seemed to loosen and he breathed out slowly.

The corner of Phil's mouth twitched and he nodded, before turning back to watch Steve, now fielding another Houston Hydra question. Clint realised a minute later that his face didn't feel tight and scowly anymore. Huh.

When a reporter from Soccer Exposed asked Natasha which brand of sports bra she wore, complete with knowing leer, he was even able to exchange a quick grin with her before launching into an enthusiastic review of sports bras for man-boobs that had the guy squirming in his seat after thirty seconds.

It was totally worth the glare Fury sent him. And the lecture on appropriate conduct around the media over dinner that night.

The amused look in Phil's eyes, however, was just a bonus that did inexplicably fluttery things to his gut.

***

On the last day of training camp, Clint was called into Phil's temporary treatment room. As everyone was being put through the most boring drills Fury could devise, Clint didn't mind the summons, even though Tony delivered it with a knowing wink.

He flipped Tony off with a broad grin and jogged away. It wasn't like there was any good reason for that wink. Clint barely even knew the physio. He definitely hadn't done anything--hadn't even thought anything--that deserved one of Tony's innuendos.

Tony was just shit-stirring, as usual. It happened at the end of a week of too much team togetherness.

The treatment room in the borrowed facilities was tiny, and obviously not Phil's usual base. Clint was pretty sure Phil wasn't the type to have tacky Swimsuit Illustrated calendars on the walls.

Not that he'd thought about what Phil might put on his walls. Nope, no way.

Clint hopped up onto the bed and waited patiently for Phil to finished typing at the laptop balanced precariously on one corner of a counter. The quick clatter of keys was soothing and Clint settled back, watching Phil through half-closed eyes. He was wearing another dark suit, and Clint was prepared to bet money that he'd be wearing one of the team ties again when he turned around. So far, Clint had noticed that Phil was a suits guy unless he was out on the field, and even out there, he looked better than the average physio. He made the team sweat pants and t-shirt look classy.

Clint wondered what he wore off-duty. Was he a jeans and leather jacket kind of guy? Or khakis and sweater?

Why was he thinking about it? 

Clint mentally kicked himself.

That was exactly the moment when Phil turned around, pleasant smile in place and the team tie neatly knotted around his neck. Clint's ears suddenly felt too hot, but Phil didn't seem to notice, thankfully.

Despite the confusing warmth at the tips of Clint's ears, they talked easily for a while about Clint's medical history. Phil carefully manipulated Clint's occasionally painful knee, checking for range and comparing it to the good one, and Clint barely noticed how smooth his hands felt against his skin. After all, they were professionals and all of this was standard stuff he'd been through with a dozen other physios over the years. No problem.

Why would there be a problem, anyway? He wasn't sure why that thought had even crossed his mind.

It was Tony's fault. Tony and his damned wink. If Tony had kept both eyes open, Clint wouldn't have been in a place where the possibility existed for unprofessional thoughts.

The concept got kind of tangled in Clint's head when he tried to reason it out and he gave up. The important point was, they were both professionals. So Phil's hand on Clint's skin was normal and boring and totally not a problem at all, right?

Right.

Yup.

Phil smiled and Clint's heart rate did something very unprofessional. He ignored it.

"I see from your notes that you're a reluctant visitor," Phil said, still smiling. "Your last physio had some inventive descriptions for your reluctance to see him, in fact."

Clint's face suddenly felt too warm. "Um."

"What would I have to do to get you in my office when you need it, instead of when someone has to carry you in?"

"Give me a sticker and a sucker every time I see you?" Clint asked, before his brain could take control of his mouth and shut him the hell up.

Phil's eyes did a twinkly thing, which Clint suspected was because he was trying not to laugh. "I can probably do that. Any particular flavours?"

"Grape," Clint said, when he'd managed to stop gaping.

"Grape it is. I'll make sure I stay stocked up."

To Clint's continuing surprise, Phil turned away and typed something into his laptop, hitting enter with a flourish. Unless he was really, really imagining things, Phil had actually made a note on his file about grape flavour suckers. Which was kind of awesome and kind of…he didn't know what it was. Something that made his heart do unprofessional things again, anyway.

But because Clint was having a brain-to-mouth malfunction, instead of slinking away quietly, he asked, "What about the stickers?"

Phil cocked his head, studying him for a moment. He didn't remark on the bright shade of red that Clint was sure he'd turned. He just shrugged and said, "I'll let that be a surprise."

Which, yeah, did a whole bunch of incredibly unprofessional things to Clint's heart, lungs, and gut that he suspected he was going to regret one day. Not today, though. Today, he grinned and sketched a salute before hopping down from the table and sauntering away.

He might even have whistled as he walked, until Natasha passed him on her way to the other new physio and gave him a weird look.


End file.
